


the play's the thing

by caramelchameleon



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, References to Hamlet, kids performing shakespeare, overprotective ghosts, stage combat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9662012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelchameleon/pseuds/caramelchameleon
Summary: Webber wants to play stick-swords. Wendy wants to play Hamlet. They compromise. Abigail is there.





	

Abigail remembers the living world, but her grasp on it is so limited, so fleeting. She has one overwhelming drive that outweighs everything else, part magical binding and part the true desire of her unbeating heart honed into something sharp and merciless. Protect her sister. Keep Wendy alive for both of them. 

So although she understands that this is a mock-combat, only a play, she stands by at the ready and can't help eyeing Wendy's opponent, no matter that he had proven his true friendship already. Webber's eight-eyed peripheral vision is excellent, naturally, and they must see her watching them, but they betray no fear. Despite everything, such a trusting child. 

Wendy begins by clasping Webber's free hand in hers, looking steadily into his largest pair of eyes. Webber has never studied the classics, was cruelly taken from the world before he had the opportunity, and so does not know the speech they should be giving, Hamlet's apology to Laertes for wronging him in the throes of his madness. They both simply nod, and break away, readying the long, thin sticks that will serve as fencing foils for this duel.

Not real weapons, Abigail reminds herself, watching the sticks come up and cross. They are the thinnest and flimsiest branches of the island's small saplings, and would do no harm even if they struck true, and Webber has promised to play fair and not aim for the face, on strictest instructions from their mentor Ms. Wickerbottom. Wendy will be in no danger.

"Come, my lord," says Wendy-as-Laertes, and the duel begins.

Wendy plays defensively, knowing Hamlet must score the first hit. Webber moves slowly at first, deliberately tapping his stick against hers in wide arcs, the kind of fanciful swordwork used by children and actors, that would never achieve anything in a real fight. They glance at Abigail, a barely perceptible flick of their head, pupil-less compound eyes as blank as always and betraying little. She nods back. 

Webber gradually speeds his motions - not to a frantic pace, or a dangerous one, but he begins to aim for Wendy's body and legs in earnest, showing real skill honed by the need for survival. Wendy, who had the same harsh teaching, holds him off for another half-dozen strokes, and then the flat of Webber's sword taps gently against the bare skin of her free arm. Both of them step back, looking to Abigail.

"Judgement?" Wendy asks.

"A hit," Abigail whispers back, "a very palpable hit." She is in control of herself. Webber is no threat.

"Again."

Abigail holds herself in place, ghostly edges vibrating with tension, as they begin the second round. Now that they've warmed up, the duel is more active, Wendy moving from pure defense to taking a few swings herself. Webber blocks her easily, fur fluffing up and spiderlegs raising to a widespread threat-stance in the excitement of the play-fight, but lets her drive him backward a few steps. Then a feint, a swing, and Webber's foil raps once against Wendy's torso.

"A touch, a touch, I do confess," Wendy laments, high and fluting, but she doesn't sound truly hurt, not even winded. Abigail knows the sounds of her sister's pain. Wendy is fine. 

"Again, Laertes," Webber says, still bristling with excitement, improvising in place of Hamlet's line. "You're not trying! Do your best!"

"Come on, then," Wendy replies, and they cross swords again, and spar.

Webber mostly allows Wendy to take the lead this time, defensive apart from a few slow, smooth lunges that she easily fends off. She warms more gradually into the role of attacker, a faint flush of exertion coloring her pale cheeks.

"Have at you now!" she cries, which is the signal - she nicks one of Webber's outstretched legs, and, mock-enraged, he tosses his stick to one side and lunges for her. 

Abigail draws herself up, quivering, watching Webber tackle Wendy to the ground with a wild spider's harsh growl. She's hyper-aware of Webber's bared fangs and the clawed fingertips that he's never been able to successfully file down blunt for more than a day. He wrestles her down, pinning her sword-hand to the ground, and raises his spider-legs for a strike at her face.

Abigail lights the stage in an eerie cast of red light, ready to intervene. Webber's claws hit the dirt to either side of Wendy's head, all four legs deliberately aimed away from her face, and he looks up at Abigail, wide smile fading into apprehension.

"How is't, Laertes?" Abigail whispers, collecting herself enough to remain in character. 

"I'm all right, Abigail," Wendy murmurs back. Webber sits up, sheepish, fur slicking back down, and takes Wendy's stick out of her loose grasp, returning to the choreographed fight. The red light fades as Webber stabs the sword quite deliberately into the dirt between Wendy's arm and her body, ending the fight. 

"O, I am justly killed by my own treachery," Laertes laments aloud. Webber scurries around to reposition himself, takes Wendy's head into his lap. She swoons against him, and Abigail floats closer to light the scene more dramatically.

"What treachery?" Hamlet asks, two hands supporting her, one spiderlimb reaching down delicately, and the 'damaged' one tucked close to their head on the other side.

"Hamlet, thou art slain." Wendy reaches up and grasps the spider's claw - it's closer to a foot than a hand, but the 'toes' have some dexterity, and he accepts her grip and squeezes back. "No medicine in the world can do thee good." She fumbles for the words of the monologue, gives in and improvises the gist. "The sword - the foul sword, t'was poisoned. Here, here I lie - Never to rise again - The king," she laments, taking up the thread again, hand clutched earnestly to her chest. "The king's to blame!"

Wendy is Abigail's entire world, but distantly she hears Maxwell huff, a small indignant sound. Is he a Claudius, then, to blanch at the play? Unimportant. Abigail leans close, watches Webber comb a clawed hand delicately through Wendy's bangs to soothe her. A bracelet woven from white silk and dyed with red berries is nestled into the fur at his wrist. 

"Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet." Wendy's voice is softer now, quivering with melodrama. "Mine and my f-father's death," she falters, tries to turn the misstep into part of the act, a gasp for a final dying breath. "They.. they lie not upon thee, nor thine on me..." She lets her hand slip from Webber's claw, limp, eyes shut. It makes the space where Abigail's heart should be ache with cold fury, for a moment, but she sees her sister's chest rise and fall slightly with breath, and is satisfied again.

"Heaven make thee free of it!" Hamlet says, the only line they had bothered to memorize, and Webber is no great actor but enthusiastic and earnest. "I follow thee!" With a dramatic, gurgling cry, Webber pitches over and imitates her mock-death, the two of them lying sprawled over each over in a heap. 

"Goodnight, sweet prince," Abigail whispers, hovering over the 'bodies,' and although the line is about Hamlet it's Wendy she says it for, only Wendy can inspire her to gather together her last scraps and memories of living emotion and mean it. "And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

The handful of adults who hadn't been busy with other needful chores clap. Maxwell's applause is perfunctory and sardonic, dulled by gloved hands, but he applauds nevertheless, and approaches to help Wendy to her feet. Webber bounces up on his own, takes a quick bow, and turns away to thriftily gather up the discarded 'swords' and toss them into the kindling pile.

Possibly only Wendy and Abigail hear Maxwell murmur, "Well done, Miss Wendy."

Abigail floats close by her sister's side, assuring herself that Wendy is safe and unhurt. The sticks have not left even the lightest of welts or bruises on her skin, and the spider's claws were gentle. Abigail has done her job tonight, and protected her twin. That is enough satisfaction to hold her here in the living world another night.


End file.
